


What the Heart Knows

by Thetis



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetis/pseuds/Thetis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lane ekes out a mundane existence as an art student doing mundane assignments.  She meets a professor who inspires and delights her, while dealing with bullies who never stop tormenting her.  Or does she?</p><p>And what does the heart know?  Does it know anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Heart Knows

The heat of summer lingered into late September, fireflies flickering just outside the massive window that took up most of the wall in the little dorm. Dinner had been some instant ramen, flavorless but filling. Lane sat on a stool, her free leg kicking aimlessly in the air as she rapidly sketched an outline for the portrait. Her sketchbook was propped against the table, back against the wall. She could feel sweat trickling down her neck, and she wondered if her back had left a stain.

Art school was much tougher than she had thought it would be. Not that she believed it would be easy. But the frequent all-nighters left her grouchy, her diet of mostly coffee and ramen was wearing, and the homework was time-consuming and at times, tedious.

Somehow, she had managed to finish her first year. Flexing her fingers, she completed the outline with a taupe pencil, and picked up a blue pastel, picturing the blue in her head.

His eyes were nothing spectacular, but then again she had never seen him without his glasses. They were an ordinary blue, but bright, and he was lively with his enthusiastic countenance. In his mid-fifties, slight yet still a head taller than her. His hair was past graying, and she could not tell what his original hair color had been when he was younger.

 _Younger?_ The girl often wondered what he would have been like as a young man. Right now, he was an animated gentleman, with rare compassion and kindness. She had his face memorized, down to the color and line of his jaw. Would it have been possible for them to have been...

 _Fool. He would not be the same person._ You _were not the same even a year ago._

She lowered her head, closing her eyes, as the memories of the last year washed over her, her head ringing with a low hum of disapproval. When she was tired, too tired, her head felt like it was overrun with voices, ordering her around. She should go to bed early tonight.

~*~

Lane had an older sister. She had always been told when others found out she was the youngest that she was supposed to be the baby, the one everyone spoiled. She always politely replied her parents taught her better than that.

Her sister Audrey was really smart and talented. Good looking too. Everybody seemed to like her. Their mom would always have long conversations with her, and because she looked like Dad, he doted on her constantly.

It was no surprise to anyone that Audrey got into all the colleges she applied to, including her top pick Ivy League university. She also got into a lower-ranked school on a full scholarship. Dad and Mom had enough money to get them both through college—had her sister taken the scholarship.

She insisted on the Ivy League. And what her sister wanted, she usually got.

When it was time for Lane to go to college, she ended up in a similar situation. She got into one of the best art schools in the country, but with no assistance.

There was an art school a little further north, providing a lower tuition to in-state students. It had been one of her safety schools, and she had gotten in on a partial scholarship. She had heard a lot about it from her classmates in her painting classes.

“God, it’s a terrible place. It’s where most of the high school students who didn’t apply anywhere else on time end up.”

“Most of the students there are on Mommy and Daddy’s dime. They don’t care about getting an education.”

“It’s like an extension of high school. Think of it as thirteenth grade when you get there.”

High school was bad enough the first time around for the girl. She’d had a rough time there, especially in the cafeteria, where they would throw food at her. She had been so happy to graduate.

In the corner of her mind, she could have taken out loans and put more hours into her summer job. It would have been difficult, but not impossible. But she didn’t think idle gossip and personal preference were good enough reasons to impose on her family.

After all, her parents had taught her better than that.

~*~

The girl sat alone in her dorm room halfway through her first semester. All was quiet and still, with nothing to distract her from getting her final project done. She was almost done in that one class, and then she had two more classes to slog through and...

She swung her head suddenly, and her stool went clattering to the floor as she rose, saying loudly, “Who's there!”

No one answered. She thought she heard laughter. Quiet whispers. Something just out of reach.

Nervous, she rubbed her arms, as it was approaching the end of fall. Not enough sleep, maybe nutrition problems. She would try to get a nap in, and maybe buy some more fresh fruits and vegetables for dinner. No, she didn't hear anything. Nothing at all.

~*~

Lane started attending art school. She went with perfectly nice, seemingly normal people. She was a silent observer for the most part, and preferred it when they didn't include her. She would watch them eat dinner, messing around and 'busting each others’ chops,’ as they described it. They were so...vivid in her memories, laughing and talking about absolutely nothing.

They would walk to classes together, milling about the halls. Joking in class and planning parties together in conversations. Was this normal? Was this what it was like?

She wasn't sure she would ever take to it.

She remembered one time in class when one student had a contest to see who could make the biggest kneaded eraser ball, and the winner’s had been about the size of a baseball. It was in her favorite class, and all this had been going on, as if the professor hadn’t been lecturing, hadn’t been trying to instruct them on something meaningful. The student with the winning ball had seen her tight expression, and she remembered the size and shape of the kneaded eraser ball very well. For when she got up to retrieve her fallen pencil, he hurled the ball with as much force as he could into her stomach.

It bounced off her and she crumpled, wheezing. The classroom exploded into laughter.

“What the...” the professor was there in an instant, helping her up. “Are you all right?” He helped her back onto the stool, and then zeroed in on the student, who could barely stay upright, his sides shaking so hard. One of his friends had tears of mirth pouring down his face.

“What is your _problem_?” the professor said so lowly that the classroom simmered down to hear him. “Do you normally just hit people without provocation?”

“What do you mean without provocation?” the student sneered at Lane, staring at her with unconcealed contempt. She watched him coldly, her eyes narrowed to slits, still trying to catch her breath, clutching her stomach. It _hurt_. “The bitch is always glaring at us like she's too good to breathe the same air we do. She only got what was coming.”

The professor stared blankly for a moment before shaking his head. “Fine. Why don't you try telling that to the dean?”

“You're gonna write me up?” said the student, mouth hanging open.

The professor turned back to the film projector, changing the slide. “You won't be allowed into this class until you go to the dean. Once he’s happy you won't do that nonsense again, you can come back.” The student stood still and the professor continued, saying, “Now exhibit D is of a curvalinear drawing—”

The door slammed. The professor paused, but continued his lecture. The girl was rubbing at her stomach through her sweater, and she ducked her head to hide her face from him.

~*~

The day the girl first spoke to her favorite professor was a lazy autumn day, her first semester in art school. She had had her first few classes, and already the names and faces she had encountered were becoming blurry and indistinct. Perhaps it was out of self-preservation even at that early stage; she already had spitballs thrown at her and had been tripped on the way to class. It had been like high school all over again.

Shafts of light came in from the high windows in the hall, and it was peaceful, quiet even, for the moment.

The girl couldn't recall what exactly she had been doing. Rearranging her books, not really paying attention to where she was walking, until she bumped into someone.

Looking up, she was startled to see an older man with gray hair. He had grabbed her books before they could tumble out of her grip, his warm hand overlapping hers. “Got it?” he asked. “Easy there.”

She looked at him. He was speaking to her with some familiarity, and was actually _nice_ to her. She couldn't help but always recall how rare that was at school, so she always remembered that.  
“Who are you?” she asked.

“Hey, could you smile a little?” he asked.

Still dazed, she did it automatically, if a bit shyly. She recognized him now. He was her professor for culture and civilization, the class she had to take to fulfill her liberal arts requirement as a freshman.

“You recognize me,” she said in wonder. Then she blushed.

“You have a nice day,” he said, turning away, letting go of her hand. Though her hand cooled, she was left with the feeling of warmth for the rest of the afternoon.

~*~

Lane hated conflict, but there came a point when enough was enough, and she wasn’t going to take the crap they were pulling anymore. After one nasty comment, she actually responded to a jibe. “You know what? Why don’t you just shut up?”

One of her classmates blinked, startled. Her blank expression suddenly made the girl unsure. “What’s your problem? I was just asking if you wanted to be in our group. I’ll take that as no.”

Her classmate turned away, looking for another partner, leaving the girl uncertain and scared. She looked around the classroom, only to catch some people snickering and hiding their smiles.

~*~

Her professor was married. Lane had had a conversation with some of the neutral students, the ones that didn't pick sides of whatever turf war that she had started by merely existing.

“He's married?” she had asked.

“Yeah, he's got a wife.”

“Any children?”

A furrowed brow. “No, I don't think so.”

According to the school bulletin, her professor was an associate professor of the liberal arts department. He taught four to five classes a semester, teaching mostly culture classes for the art school she attended.

The clothes he wore were often two sizes too big for him, and they hung off his wiry frame, making him look bigger than he actually was. He constantly ran his hand through his hair, causing a tuft of hair in the back to stick up. His gaze was penetrating, so much so that it always made her stammer when he gave her his undivided attention.

“Brilliant guy. I won't deny it,” another girl said in passing. “I had him for a mixed media project. He was like the overbearing father I never had—or wanted.”

But the girl had no problems at all with having that laser-like attention focused on her.

~*~

It seemed Lane was surrounded by people who undervalued intellect, or even wore their ignorance like a badge of honor. Perhaps she had been born in the wrong era. Exasperated and frustrated, it was why she rarely talked to people. It just wasn't worth the aggravation.

Her professor was amazing. He was fluent in Spanish, Italian, Greek, and even Latin. (“Parlate italiano?” he offered one day when she was staring blankly at an Italian newspaper he was reading.)

He had gone to Princeton, but wasn't elitist about it like so many of the other professors at school, who were so proud and full of themselves and their accomplishments. “Yeah, I went to Princeton,” he remarked to her once. “But I was there for so long that they gave me my Ph.D once they had enough of me.”

~*~

“Dad, it’s me.”

“Oh, honey, how are you! How is Evan?”

“No, Dad. It’s _me._ Lane.”

“Oh. _Oh_. What’s going on?”

“Not much. Look, I’m still getting bullied at art school. It’s awful sometimes, the way they talk about me and whisper. I’m so tired and exhausted all the time. The workload doesn’t help either.”

“You _sound_ tired. Have you talked with any of the school authorities?”

“They just tell me to ignore it. Nothing really useful.”

“How about I talk with them? See if I can’t straighten things up.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

~*~

By the end of her semester, the girl was exhausted. She didn't know how she'd be able to stand _seven_ more semesters of this constant state of anxiety and stress. Maybe it would have been possible had she not had to deal with...these people...at school, but it was too much when all put together. Too much.

As she got to the end of the semester, however, she realized that this would probably be the last class she would have with her professor. Lane felt pain at not being able to see him any longer. She wanted to work with him again. Recalling the distant part of her memory of a mixed media project one of the other students mentioned, she headed to his office towards the end of November.

It was blustery day, approaching winter, and she caught sight of him as he swept through the door, his hair windswept, wearing a parka. She felt her breath momentarily leave her.

He saw her, and smiled kindly. “Hello. What are you doing here?” When she lowered her eyes, embarrassed, he continued. “It can't be about your grades. Your average is the highest in the class.”

She smiled instinctively. “No, it isn't. Can I ask you about something?”

He invited her into his small office, where they talked about classes. The girl expressed her frustration. “Yes, I understand that we must master the basics to be able to create and get better to do the more complex stuff. I know that. But...” She sighed. “I feel like what we're being given is just rote busywork, stuff I could have learned or figured out on my own. I almost feel like I'm wasting my tuition.”

His grin was lopsided. “I felt a lot of my undergraduate classes were like that myself.” She tilted her head, surprised. “Yes, I wasn't challenged by a lot of what my undergrad education offered. And I had trouble getting along with my peers.”

“You too?” she said, her voice hushed. He looked at her and chuckled.

“Yes. Why do you look so surprised? I got hell from them. I was a student that liked to be challenged constantly, to read the hardest stuff I could find. Of course I was.”

“You too,” she repeated, softer.

“It does get easier.”

“Not when other people won't get off your case.”

He sighed. “Don't bother with them. As for the work, why don't you take an independent project with one of the professors? I'm sure that would be challenging enough for you.”

“Independent project?”

“Yes, you could conduct some research into a technique or come up with a project to work directly with someone on.”

She hesitated. “Could I work with you?”

“Sure,” he paused. “But I'm going to work you into the ground, you do understand?”

“I don't have a problem with that.”

“Make sure you don't,” her professor was nodding, combing his hand through his hair, looking pensive. “If you aren't going to work hard, I won't do it, understand?”

She considered it seriously. The girl, in essence, was asking for _more_ work, as if she didn't have enough already, even if it was incredibly boring and tedious. Maybe if she found some kind of work she really liked, it wouldn't feel as terrible?

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I'll do it.”

~*~

Lane awoke in the middle of the night, her sweaty bangs plastered to her forehead. She climbed out of bed to use the bathroom, then went to her kitchen to get a drink of water. As she sipped from her cup, she stared at the beginnings of the sketch she had started in her pad.

It was mostly the taupe pencil, with the beginnings of the background shading set down. Her finger followed the line—not directly, as that would smear it—but the lines forming the beginnings of a face with the edges of his hair.

She sighed as she stared at it, the moonlight highlighting the patches of white she had laid down. She was wide awake, and as she took another sip of water, she found herself picking up a gray pastel, start to work on it again.

~*~

_Stupid girl, what are you doing here?_

_Can't keep up?_

_Too hard for you?_

_Poor baby..._

_So utterly tragic!_

“Leave me alone,” she muttered under her breath. She was curled up on her bed, trying to block out the litany of voices. She was exhausted. Maybe she needed to stop pulling four all-nighters a week. She needed to spend more money on better food.

_Stupid brat having delusions of grandeur?_

_You won't escape us._

And it wasn't just one voice at a time. They overlapped each other, sometimes shouting over each other, sometimes whispering things she didn't want to listen to. No matter how high she blasted her music, covered her ears with pillows, or even shouted back at them, they wouldn't leave her alone. Not until she forced herself to take a nap, and they went away for a few hours. She'd wake up, and they were back to a dim, disapproving hum, and then gradually raise their voices louder and louder to utter cacophony. There was no escaping it.

_No escape, no escape, no escape..._

~*~

Before the winter break, her professor made her copy down a list of books, and commanded her to read them for research, to get an idea for the project she wanted to do. It seemed counterintuitive, as she knew what mediums she was comfortable with (painting, pastel, and ink) and her subjects (people and still-lifes, none of that modernist garbage.)

The books she was given were very lengthy, some in the neighborhood of two thousand pages. When she began one volume and started reading it, she wondered why she had even bothered. On the whims of a silly infatuation? Was she just wasting this poor man's time with her desires to excel, and wanted to spend more time with someone who was charitable enough to be kind to her?

Yet as she read one novel about Michelangelo, she was inspired by his desire for the art, to the point where he would sneak into morgues to study anatomy, as the practice was condemned by the Church at the time. It was a beautiful biographical novel, rich in details and the vividness of the man's art, a life suffused with art. She had sometimes felt that power, to create something, though her desires differed.

Lane was mesmerized by how two disparate objects, animate or inanimate, would interact with each other. Imagining how the two elements interplayed—it didn't have to an amicable meeting even, let alone a marriage of true minds. It could be something as simple as how two colors mixed together, or how a flower unfurled its petals at a brush of sunlight. She didn't like to make her subjects overly complex.

That was how the girl liked it: simple and direct. The other students, her classmates, often had these grandiose visions of what their art was supposed to be like, and tended to drag themselves and others into a cesspool of neuroses and pseudo-intellectualism. It was...stupid and boring.

She admitted to herself, in the dark of night when all was quiet, that was why she had food thrown at her, why she was the victim of pranks, why she had to get her own dorm single in order to get any peace. She could never hide how she felt.

~*~

“Listen, I’ve spoken with the assistant dean. He’s said he’s gotten reports around your dorm.”

“No kidding, Dad. I’ve filed a complaint about my roommates next door shouting all the time, and blasting their music. One time I opened the door, and they left a CD player right outside my door turned up all the way...bastards.”

“Language!”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not what the dean was talking about. People have filed complaints about you.”

“What the... _why_?”

“They’re complaining about you shouting in the middle of the night. Screaming, even. They say it sounds like you’re talking to yourself.”

“...what?”

“Yes, the assistant dean has received two complaints, and they’ve expressed concern about you.”

“Concern. Hah, that’s rich. After they’ve made my life here hell, you’re going to tell me they give a damn?”

“Listen, don’t be so hostile, they were really…”

“‘Concerned’? Was this before or after they wedged my dorm shut with rubber cement, those assholes?”

“I never heard about that.”

“They claimed it was an accident! And those fools at the dean’s office _believed_ them!”

“You’re getting really upset about this. Are you...sure...that you’re not seeing...or hearing something different? Like you’re misinterpreting them?”

“...you have got to be kidding me.”

“What? It’s possible that you’re just seeing them in the worst possible light. Maybe try being nicer and see what happens?”

“You don’t believe me? I...are you kidding me? Do you think I’m just _making this up_?”

“Calm down--”

“No, I will not calm _down_! It’s hell over here, and you think this is _my_ problem? I just want some damn peace and quiet, and..and...forget it. I should have known better than to go to someone who favors a spoiled brat over me!”

“Don’t talk about Audrey like…”

_Click._

 

The girl wondered sometimes how much her professor realized. He was far from a stupid man. He was always kind to her, and while he didn't stare at him overly long or follow him around on campus, these things you could always just _tell._

 _You have to admit it would be awfully nice if you could just kiss him_.

She ducked her head when she felt her cheeks warm. She was completely against the idea of pursuing him directly. He was already married and never answered any personal questions. She had curiously asked him what his middle name was when seeing his signature when she got permission for the project, and he abruptly changed the subject.

It was enough, just to be around him, she thought. Just to see his fine, beautiful mind swing from topic to topic, watch him work and work with him to create her project. She planned on a large piece, which would be a combination of India ink calligraphy, with the edges bleeding into colored inks.

It would have to be enough, for that was all she would have.

“You're so pessimistic,” he had said to her once.

“Really?” she asked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he had teased. “Ever think of thinking well of yourself?”

“Well...” she was staring at her feet again. “Did you think well of yourself when everybody at college was telling you the opposite?”

He sighed. “Point.”

~*~

It was halfway there, her picture. She had taken Blaise Pascal’s famous quote—she didn’t risk transcribing the original French, but left it in the famous English translation—and had written it down several times into a collage of intersecting lines, the quote looping in on itself, swirling into maddening patterns until it continued into seeming infinity, and eventually melting into colors, like oil on the surface of water, sunlight creating the illusion of rainbow iridescence.

It would be beautiful after she was done. She had the line drawing sketched out, and all she had to do was ink it in, then blend the color on the edges. It would be tedious and would have to be done in multiple sittings, but she would do it. It would probably take her until at least Christmas. Maybe even until the end of her sophomore year.

~*~

She was sitting in the middle of a quiz for art history, her mind buzzing. It was like a perpetual hornet’s nest. Weary, she rubbed at her forehead, trying to remember the court painter who replaced Hans Holbein the Younger in England.

A voice erupted from the hall outside the classroom. “And did you hear her! Yelling like a stuck pig over the phone.”

Another girl’s voice chimed in, saying, “It was hilarious!” Her voice took on a high-pitched whine. “Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m making this _up_?” Her pitch soared on the last syllable, and the girls erupted in derisive laughter.

The girl threw down her pen, marched up to the classroom door, and flung it open. There was murmuring from the students in the classroom, but the girl paid it no mind as her brain went into shock.

The hall was completely empty.

Another professor, a balding man, asked her, “Excuse me, what’s—” The girl grasped her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. _No, no, no…_

She ran out of the classroom blindly, not caring if she failed the quiz.

~*~

It was a very hot night, and she could not get back to sleep. She stared at the half-finished portrait of a man with kind blue eyes, graying hair in the eyes, with a small tuft poking out of the back of his head. Her hands were covered in gray and blue pastel, and some green from the wool sweater he wore in the winter.

She wondered why she drew him in a sweater, when she was thinking of things like ice cream and working air conditioning. A sudden chill took her. Why air conditioning when it was due to snow this weekend?

_Are you already losing track of time?_

_You’re dreaming._

_Because nobody would ever be nice to a sad crazy bitch like you._

“Shut _up_!” she yelled, and her box of pastels went skittering to the floor. She stared at the mess of broken colors on the floor, and felt slightly ridiculous and unbelievably worn out, like overwashed socks. Her mouth felt mealy, and she went to the refrigerator to grab a tangerine. Food and bed rest would do her a world of good.

~*~

The girl awoke early one morning. She wanted to finish her independent study today. It was the first day back from Thanksgiving, and she felt invigorated after break. Her father had been bossy, her mother silent, and of course, her sister hadn’t bothered coming home, much to their parents’ disappointment.

She smiled remembering their reaction when she had given them a wry smile. _Looks like you’re stuck with just me over Thanksgiving._

She came into the room where she kept her semester-long project. Then dropped her portfolio when she caught sight of two girls scribbling over her India-inked lines with Sharpies.

The girl didn’t remember very much after she decided to throw the contents of her supply box at them, including several exacto blade replacements. There was some blood, but not very much, but judging from the howling, it must’ve hurt. She got some satisfaction out of that.

She had been jolted out of the choking, incoherent rage when she caught sight of wide blue eyes.

But it hadn’t been until Lane heard a startling _crack_ when the black monster relinquished its hold on her. She felt little pain, but it was more from the shock that her professor would actually slap her.

He was bending down, to the scratched-up pair of classmates, the girl’s ruined picture lying behind him, as he whispered quiet, comforting words to them. It occurred to her that one of them was sobbing quietly. And he...her favorite professor, was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before, frightened, and when she reached out to him, dazed, she felt something crumble in her when he flinched away.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” he said in his quiet voice. He gestured to the sobbing girl. “She needs medical attention. And you…” he motioned to her, “...you need _help._ ”

It was the way he said it that placed her firmly back in reality. She whispered. “Not you...not you too…”

He looked at her, blue eyes miserable. “You were doing so well. You have real talent, but...I was willing to ignore the reports from the dean, but...you’ve hurt someone now.”

Lane closed her eyes.

~*~

She woke up early in the morning, shaking off the last of the vibrant, confusing dream she had last night. Taking a comforting shower, the cool water soothed away the last of her headache, leaving her able to think.

She came upon a finished pastel drawing lying on the kitchen table, of a smiling man with gray hair, his green sweater so lifelike that one could almost feel the scratchiness of the wool. The girl smiled, her heart warming at the sight, and she rolled it up, putting it away. Today would be the day Lane would drum up the courage to speak to him.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this old, odd story years ago and recently revised it. The website I originally posted it on thinks I'm a spammer and won't let me upload it there again. You may look at this and let me know if this revised version is any better.


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